The Passing of the Wand
by Painted Emotion
Summary: (Medieval fantasy combined with Book 1 Harry Potter. )Rebecca Knightbridge receives a mysterious old wand, and with it a gift more incredible than she could ever have imagined..


((Alright, this is my first attempt at a new Harry Potter fic Please read and review, your comments mean a lot. For the disclaimer, Rebecca is copyright to me, as is the wand description, Merlin's physical appeareance and er.. that's it. The Harry Potter theme and Hermione are both copyright the fabulous author J.K. Rowling Alright, read on, and enjoy! ))

The night was beautiful, as all nights were. The constellations danced above with luminous grace, paying their synchronized tributes to the moon. The moon herself smiled serenely down upon the medieval land, her bright eyes drifting lovingly over the castles and rolling hills. The horses running free over the quiet fields, her reflection over the water, all these things delighted her. She paused for a moment to examine a lone figure who stood in the courtyard of a great castle…

A tall young man studied the night sky with the enraptured expression of one to whom it was much beloved. He was robed in the traditional garments of a sorcerer, dark despite the light his position brought. Dark locks curled over his head, draping boyishly over one eye. A smile animated his pale features, his grey eyes focusing on a particular cluster of stars.

"Come down, dear comrade." He murmured softly.

The faint tapping of silvery flints sounded throughout the moonlit courtyard that was momentarily bathed in pale radiance. When the light cleared, an enormous stag strode forth, his proud head held high. The horses stabled nearby surveyed the brute with astonishment, unused to seeing deer that not only matched, but towered over their own height.

The stag evidently wasn't of normal breeding; for his coat shone with the radiance of the stars above, and a faint mist hung about his muscled form. The mane and tail of a horse cascaded from his neck and rear, made of glowing silver strands. His movements were of a fluidity not known to this world. A constellation embodied, night spirit of the noblest order, known to some as the sorcerers stag, or enchanted constellation. He stopped in front of the young sorcerer, lowering his great head to stare into the eyes of his human comrade.

A soft cry broke their intimacy, and the young man drew away, revealing a babe nestled gently in his clothed arms. A girl child, her small face smoothed in sleep.

"What is the meaning of this, young friend?" the stag's soft voice inquired as he leaned forwards to examine the infant closer.

"It means precisely what you believe it to be, this young daughter is mine, and at that, my only heir." He responded softly.

The young sorcerer's expression hardened as footsteps announced the presence of an approaching guard. His words became rushed, his pale features creasing with anxiety. "There isn't much time to explain, her mother is dead, and I soon will be. The lord's council holds me in contempt and they seek to end my lineage. Take her away, dear friend, to a land far away, to a time past the corruption she would have known here"

"She will be safe." The stag responded.

"There is nobody I would rather trust." The sorcerer looked down at the sleeping infant before taking a step back, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Understanding the ending to what was to be their last conversation, the noble beast grasped the silk wrappings that bound the babe and sprung from the ground. As the young man watched, the two vanished into the summer sky, allowing him a moment's peace.

His child was safe, his love dead, and with the clanking of persistent armor the great sorcerer sensed his own end, the end that he was at last ready for.

"I am here." He murmured, turning.

Not many had seen the power of a sorcerer then, in those medieval times. His eyes began to gleam, grey fire animating his features so that his body cast an unearthly glow. This enough paused the king's loyals who had come to destroy the traitor, the one committed of high treason against his beloved majesty.

His crime? It was one of love. He had fallen for the king's promised lady, and had given her his child. And she, brave mortal, had died, died the moment her young daughter uttered her first frail cries. As she had died, now he went, for even he knew that his impressive display wouldn't stay the guards for long.

The first arrow stuck him in the shoulder and smoldered there, the metal melting in a pool of bubbling iron. The second burst from a hidden archer and entered his abdomen where it too sparked against the deep magic flowing over his body.

Still alive he stared at an approaching figure, dimly aware of the others bowing before his greatest majesty, barely hearing the clang of metal as the elaborate sword was drawn. Still alive as silver blood ran in shining rivulets, staining his robes with it's trickling patterns. Worse still, still alive as the king neared, his expression home to more hatred than the sorcerer had ever seen, when the king plunged his sword into the young man's heart.

His breath rushed from him, a gasping groan escaping his mouth. His hands went to wrap around the handle of the sword, scrabbling and slipping over the wet metal, conscious of the king's cold voice:

"And now you die by my sword, just as my beloved died by your hand."

This said, a powerful kick was issued, toppling the wounded man to his side. Lying there in a pool of his blood, his gaze lifted, directed to the heavens, he could do nothing but stare at the stars, waiting for his death. A shooting star zoomed across the night sky as he watched, the graceful flight of the stag and his daughter. She was safe. A soft smile curved his lips, and he knew no more.

The king prodded the sorcerer's body with his toe, then turned to leave. The age of court magic had ended. Merlin and his young heir were lost to the world.

----

The scenery flickered, dimmed, and finally blackened in a flood of conscious thought as the dreamer woke and experienced those beguiling few moments where one most think hard to remember where they are.

Her surroundings could not have been more different than the moonlit courtyard, in front of her four poster bed crackled a cheerful fire. To her left was a large chest of drawers, and to her right was an enormous mirror who's carved wooden frame was yawning sleepily.

Reaching out to her beside table, she grabbed a small notepad and read the heading "The Leaky Couldron." It was only then that comprehension dawned on her face, and she reached out again to grasp a small envelope addressed to her in emerald ink.

"_Miss Rebecca Flightbridge,_

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

A delighted shiver ran down her spine as she reread her acceptance letter for the umpteenth time, then skimmed over the list of magical artifacts she would need to commence her first year of schooling. That was, in fact, why she was in Diagon Alley. It was to buy her school equipment.

Rebecca rose from her bed and walked over to the mirror, surveying her appearance critically.

The image reflected in the mirror was of this: A young girl, looking to be around eleven with the odd look to her lengthy limbs, a look children get when they have grown very quickly in a very short amount of time. Her hair was long, disappearing over her shoulders and stopping at the middle of her back, a deep auburn in colour that framed her face in waves. Her eyes were large in her pale face, a mix between hazel and deep green that often changed between the two when her emotions ran high.

This inspection done she tugged a brush through her hair and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt bearing the logo of dragon and the letter R. perhaps recognizable if you'd ever seen Ron's brother Charlie, it's the Romanian crest for the ridgeback association.

Ten minutes later found her strolling down the bust street, heading for the small wand shop Olivanders, "Makers of fine wands for centuries." She entered the shop with the faint tinkle of the bell hanging over the door.

"Good morning, good morning, child. Let's get started straight away." The shop owner greeted her with a smile before turning his back on her to study the boxes of wands.

"Why don't you try this one out? Eleven inches, oak and rather firm. The core is a phoenix feather, I believe, yes."

"Thank you" Rebecca managed to say as the wand was thrust into her hands.

Silence fell as the two waited for some reaction from the wand, but absolutely nothing happened save the opening of the shop door.

"Just a moment, child." The shopkeeper turned to the door, beckoning another new student in with an patient wave of the unresponsive wand.

Rebecca offered a tentative smile to the bushy haired girl who'd just entered.

"I'm Hermione Granger, and you are?"

"Rebecca, Rebecca Flightbridge."

"My children, please stay focused on the task at hand, you will have plenty of time to chitchat once you've found your wands." The wand-seller interrupted politely.

Hermione and Rebecca exchanged cheerful glances before opening the small wand boxes the shopkeeper had given them.

"Twelve inches, willow, unicorn hair. Give it a wave, young Hermione." He murmured softly.

**BANG.** An explosive jet of color rocketed from the tip of her wand and ricocheted off the walls in a series of destructive rainbow arcs. Ducking, Rebecca avoided certain injury as several boxes of wands zoomed through the air.

"I suppose not. Now, Rebecca, why don't you try this one? Ten inches, oak and unicorn hair."

Rebecca grasped the wand gingerly and immediately a stream of boiling hot water shot out, drenching everything nearby in a scalding wave. The shopkeeper managed to move out of the way, thankfully, so moments later the situation was under control.

Hermione was the first to find her wand (twelve inches, oak, phoenix feather, very good for transfiguration) and left to examine a display of quills, promising to meet Rebecca a Quill shop later on.

An hour and sixteen wands later, Olivander was getting desperate.

"What did you say your name was?" He inquired gently.

"Rebecca, Rebecca Flightbridge, sir."

"And your mother's maiden name?"

The girl's eyes clouded and she shrugged, glancing down at the floor. "I never knew my parents, I live with my grandmother and her son, they have treated me like one of their own."

The kind man nodded and glanced once more around his shop.

"My family has been in the wand-making business since the days when king Arthur roamed around on that horse of his… and I remember every wand; every single wand. Now, tell me, do you know what happens when a wizard dies?"

Rebecca blinked and shook her head, assuming he wasn't speaking of the 'Great After' or whatever was up there above the clouds.

"Often their wands are returned to the place where they were made, here, let me show you."

So-saying this he led her into the back of his crowded little shop, into a room barely lit by a couple of dying candles. Boxes of wands were stacked here too, though these were different. They seemed older, the labels worn, the boxes themselves battered and torn in many places. Each one held a wand that looked old and dull compared to the gleaming magical instruments in the front room.

"Great wizards returned their wands to those who made them in hopes of preserving a part of them, somehow, or keeping the instrument of their magic away from people who sought to do harm with them. Take this one, for example."

He handed her an oak wand covered with tiny spots of mould and dust. She took it and examined it curiously, before handing it back to her.

"Who did that belong to?"

"Godric Gryffindor." He stated immediately, tones deadpan as he shoved the wand back onto the shelf.

"The Godric Gryffindor? One of the founders of Hogwarts?" She asked, incredulous. Shouldn't such a treasure have been kept in a safer place?

"The Godric Gryffindor" he affirmed with a smile. "He gave it to our family soon before he himself died, wanted it to be safe. There's spells in this building that run back for centuries, a veritable vault for wands."

Nodding slightly, Rebecca turned back to the rows of wands, reaching for one in a box whose labels had long since become unreadable with age.

"Who did this one belong to, Mr. Olivander?" she inquired, reaching out and picking up a thin wand made out of a dark wood she didn't recognize.

The reaction was immediate. The wand grew warm in her hand and a sudden gust of air blew through the small room. Various markings appeared for a moment on the curious wand before vanishing.

Olivander turned around, his eyes wide in time to see a dazzling light burst from the end of the wand and fill the room with the sound, strangely, of galloping hooves.

"I-I'm so sorry! I'll put it back!" Obviously shaken by the unexpected reaction she put the wand back in it's aged box, her hands shaking slightly. Nervously she turned to study the wand maker's expression, certain that he'd never let her continue her search for a wand after that surprising display.

Olivander's wise face was drawn, slightly pale as he examined the wand she'd picked up. Slowly he turned from the room and headed to the small till in the front of the store.

Following and feeling the miserable guilt of one who isn't sure if they were going to be in serious trouble, Rebecca didn't dare ask him what he was doing.

"It's very simply, my child, you've found your wand, or your wand has found you. Ordinarily I don't give away used wands, but seeing as it's the only one so far to have reacted to you, I suppose I can make an exception. I'm sure the former owner won't mind"

He wrapped the old wand up quickly and held it out to her, allowing her to pay him a sum of eighteen galleons and two sickles for the odd instrument.

"Who did my wand belong to, Mr. Olivander?" Rebecca asked as she turned to leave the store, struck by the sudden thought.

"I don't know, my dear, it has been in that storage room for as long as I can remember. Probably an old witch who didn't want her children to get a hold of her wand." The wand-maker shrugged as he said this, his voice almost forcibly uncaring.

As Rebecca left the store, Olivander collapsed into the nearest chair, wiping his face with a lacy handkerchief he stored handily in his breast pocket.

"Of all the wands..." He managed to murmur, closing his eyes for a moment.

-----

"Did you get your new wand?" Hermione inquired as soon as Rebecca turned up, panting in the cluttered little school supply shop.

"I certainly did, but I don't know about new." She pulled out the curious wand and showed it to Hermione with a faint smile.

Hermione looked at the old wand and smiled politely. "Well, it's certainly.. very .. Well I'm sure it's going to be most efficient in class."

Rebecca laughed and put the wand back in the back. "Well I like it, and it works really well."

The two girls headed back into the busy street, one clutching in her back one of the most magical wizarding artifacts Olivander had ever had in his shop. It was her wand, the old wand dotted with constellations and runes, the wand of the great sorcerer Merlin himself.

((Alright! The first chapter is done, I hope you enjoyed it So yes, please Read and Review so that I can use your comments in my next chapter Thanks very much!))


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